@kingKerubo@ntsa_kenya@NPSOfficial_KE 1. Report to the police
2.Get Autopsy report
3. Get a lawyer
4. The car has insurance, that's the justice procedure.
A parent of three children enrolled in the CBC system shared this book-purchase receipt with me in visible distress. The total represents only the most basic textbooks required for one term. No uniforms. No transport. No lunch. No extracurricular costs. Just books.
In the parents’ WhatsApp group for this school, the frustration is unanimous. Parents are complaining openly that they cannot keep up. Many admit they are skipping purchases, delaying payments, or borrowing money simply to comply. What is striking is that this is not a private academy or an elite institution.
This is the reality of ordinary Kenyan families trying to survive a public education system that has quietly become unaffordable.
The most painful irony is that these books cannot be reused. Unlike the 8-4-4 textbooks we grew up with—passed down from sibling to sibling, neighbour to neighbour—CBC books are designed like consumables. They function more like exercise books than reference texts. Children write in them, tear them apart, submit pages, and discard them at the end of the year. Every new grade resets the financial burden.
There is no inheritance. No cost-saving continuity. No relief.
This raises an unavoidable question: who exactly designed this system, and for whose benefit?
CBC has effectively turned learning materials into a recurring revenue stream. Publishers, curriculum designers, approved vendors, printers, and distribution networks are thriving. Parents are drowning. This is not accidental. It is structural. When a national curriculum requires constant repurchasing of non-reusable materials, it ceases to be an education reform and becomes a commercial pipeline—one embedded inside public policy.
Across the country, similar complaints have been documented: parents forced to choose between rent and books; teachers improvising because learners lack required materials; children being punished or sidelined for not having the “correct” CBC resources. The government’s response has largely been silence, denial, or public relations messaging that ignores lived reality.
The hardest question must now be asked plainly: Is CBC an education system, or is it an economic project disguised as pedagogy?
If education is meant to be a public good, why is it designed in a way that systematically excludes the poor? If equity was the goal, why were reuse, scalability, and affordability not central design principles? If the state understood Kenya’s income structure—which it does—why deploy a curriculum that assumes endless purchasing power from households already under tax pressure?
Can parents complain? Yes—but complaints have changed nothing.
Can we go back to 8-4-4? That question is no longer ideological; it is practical.
How sustainable is CBC? For most families, it clearly is not.
What is most disturbing is that CBC was rolled out nationally without adequate piloting, cost-impact analysis, or honest public participation. Parents were never asked whether they could afford this. They were simply instructed to comply.
At some point, the government must be called out plainly: deploying an education system that financially punishes parents, commodifies learning, and benefits a narrow ecosystem of insiders is policy failure—nothing less.
Education should lift families. Not bankrupt them.
Until this is acknowledged, CBC will remain what many parents already believe it is: the most expensive mistake ever imposed on Kenyan households in the name of reform.
And the final question remains unanswered—
who will save Kenyan parents and children from this?